to feed, to guard, and to teach
by MintiNeko
Summary: A nation is a people, united under customs, language, traditions, and a little more. A motherland is the very earth from which the nations spring, and exists only in spirit. The mothers of some of our respected nations, and how they influence their sons.


**Title**: Motherlands  
**Rating**: K  
**Characters**: OC!motherlands, various characters  
**Summary:** A nation is a people, united under customs, language, traditions, and a little more. A motherland is the very earth from which the nations spring, and exists only in spirit.  
**Warnings**: Not many, other than licentious incorporation of headcanon regarding characters that may or may not exist. Also: names for the motherlands, which were incredibly difficult to find, and therefore I apologize if any seem out of place.

* * *

There are only a few of them, in the beginning.

Daearen is one of the oldest. Hair like gold and eternally wreathed in blossoms, she lives alone on her island, detached from her mainland sisters and their various, constantly conflicting offspring. She births three sons and a daughter, raises them carefully, paying special attention to her youngest, her Albion.

Albion loves Daeraren dearly—she comforts him after his siblings have bullied him, and introduces him to the fey: the fairies and their ilk, the ones who will be so important to him for the rest of his life.

To Albion, Daeraren is everything that is good, beautiful, and strong. His brothers and sister leave their mother alone for the most part. But Albion clings to her, inhaling her scent of fresh earth and flowers and encircled by warm, safe arms.

It is only natural that he notices first her deteriorating state. Always ethereal, a sickliness has passed over her face, sadness not only weighing her down, but pulling her up and making her weightless. Her sisters are disappearing; their children grow dangerous.

It gets worse when Rome starts his invasions. The last time Albion sees Daearen, she is translucent; practically a ghost.

He begs her to tell him what is wrong. She refuses, shaking her head, a sad little smile on her lips.

"It's time to be strong, Albion," Daearen whispers. She presses a kiss to his forehead, and Albion feels relief that he can still feel that, at least.

It's the last time he ever sees his mother again.

He does as she bid him; changes his name to England, grows up to be the strongest of his siblings; one of the strongest empires in the world.

When he bids his people to fight for their motherland, it is for her, for the earth she nurtured him on.

* * *

Even before Daearen, there is Ancient Egypt. Proud and strong, she puts down roots on the fertile banks of the Nile River, encouraging her people to thrive, staring down her neighbors, winning tributes and bowing before no one.

She bears one son, late in life. A handsome boy child with golden eyes, Ancient Egypt shows him the Nile, the temples; everything that will one day be his. She teaches him medicine, mathematics, and hieroglyphics. He memorizes the names of their gods and their stories; does everything he can to make his mother proud.

But then Rome comes around. Egypt doesn't know how it happens, but soon both he and his mother are in Rome's house, surrounded by paraphernalia of other nations, jarringly side-by-side—most prominently, sculptures and pottery from a beautiful woman with thick curls and leaves in her hair, whose image hangs above them. Egypt hates the sight of the woman's visage—it is too suggestive of his mother's fate, and the whole house feels hostile to him.

Ancient Egypt is in love with Rome. It's a reluctant sort of love—not that it dampens Rome's passions and exuberance. He showers her with gifts and affection, and Egypt can only watch as his mother is won over.

But while Rome cherishes and spoils the both of them, he doesn't see the change that comes over Ancient Egypt. They are only in the house a year, and within the year Egypt sees his mother grow thin and drawn. The son recognizes the signs, and waits.

The day Cleopatra, his mother's favorite, commits suicide, Egypt does not leave his mother's side. He watches her breath slow, her eyes close; feels the grip on his hand slacken and fall. Rome weeps over her body. Egypt does not. He thinks of everything she taught him, and tucks it away, quietly. He's a ward of Rome for now, his name taken from him, but he will come into his own again.

And he will need what his mother taught him to do so.

* * *

Ancient Greece is a warrior. She can hold her own in any battle; take on the persona of any goddess whose role must be fulfilled at any given time.

She has little Greece at the prime of her life. She spoils the boy silly—kisses his cheeks, makes his favorite foods, and permits him to play with his cats for as long as he likes. They sleep curled up in the same bed, listen to the philosophers together (for none of them can ever turn down the whims of the motherland, even if the topics are not appropriate for a woman's ears), and attend the same plays. Usually, she leaves him in Athens when she has business in one of her other states, bidding him to stay put and avoid the wealthier men of the city, lest they get _ideas_.

Greece enjoys himself, but he worries about the stories of fighting he hears, especially after Alexander the Great (of whom his mother was very proud) dies and his empire divided. Ancient Greece has always been a fantastic warrior, but even she tires, and her body is beginning to show it, with white scars standing out against tan skin. There's gray in her hair, and wrinkles starting to gather at the corners of her mouth and eyes. She doesn't let her pain show, even though Greece knows it's there.

"My darling, don't worry about your Mama," she tells Greece, cuddling him close and playing with his downy locks. She's smiling, and for the world looks nothing more than happy and content.

Then Rome comes.

Greece finds him on the beach, wide stance, arms akimbo, looking more lost than imperious, as his fine armor would suggest.

"Hel-lo," Rome grins down at Greece, who holds one kitten in his arms while another clings to his hair. "I take it that you are little Greece?"

Greece nods a confirmation, still wary.

"Don't worry," Rome's grin grows, making him look younger and more boyish. "I'm actually here to see your mother."

He's a big man, and wears armor that gleams in the sunlight. He greets Ancient Greece as an equal, with a twinkle in his eyes and a grin on his lips. Greece views him with suspicion, but the man's amiable personality helps ease his ill feelings somewhat.

It doesn't make him any happier to watch his mother fall under his sway.

Rome is completely enamored of everything of Ancient Greece; her beauty, her wealth, her gods. Greece understands _that_ at least. What he doesn't understand is how Rome expresses that love—stealing Ancient Greece's gods and giving them new names, her philosophers and ideas. He hates Rome for it, in a way.

His mother loves Rome, and doesn't seem to mind his voracious, womanizing ways. She doesn't seem to care when he brings that other woman and _her_ son to his house, though she keeps out of their way. Greece understands love, and is usually easygoing about whatever practices his people choose to carry.

But he loves his mother, and wants Rome's love for her to be as absolute.

His mother dies in her sleep, holding little Greece close. She is old and even more beautiful than ever before.

Rome gives her the proper rites, weeping all the while. He swears that she shall live forever in the minds of his people.

Privately, Greece makes the same vow.

* * *

Russia doesn't remember his mother. He came from her death, as she breathed her last breaths and General Winter bore down upon the lands, taking up young Russia and his sisters in his arms.

He asks General Winter once, what his mother was like.

"Vast, beautiful, and strong." is the answer he receives.

Russia finds it a fitting answer, for one aspiring to be a great nation. It is the goal he keeps in mind, even as the years go by, and his hope for smiles and security seem too far away for him to grasp.

For Mother Russia, the one he never knew.

* * *

Avani is wild, strong and free.

Her only sibling is far enough south that they have no reason to quarrel, so Avani is a happy woman, cavorting with her people in their different tribes, changing her appearance and allegiance on a whim. The only time she feels sorrow is when true, cruel slaughter commences between them. She prefers their substitutes in games and rituals.

She fights with bears, runs with wolves, tells stories at a whim.

And she dances. To bring rain, sometimes. To keep away enemies, other times.

But usually, for herself.

The two children that come from her change everything.

They look nothing like her, for one thing. Both are fair and blue eyed, though the younger one is softer, with paler features.

Their coming sparks the realization that her land and her self cannot remain as they have been for much longer. As little interest as Avani shows in the lands surrounding her, she is not foolish, and knows what is to come next.

It is a sobering thought, and for some time Avani resents the children that have come from her, for rendering her incapable of the carefree ways she has held for so long.

But she tends to them, and loves them, despite the heaviness in her heart. She doesn't give them true names, but silly little nicknames: Little Rabbit and Little Bear, for the animals they love to play with the most.

In time, the other lands (countries they call themselves, cutting themselves up and distributing land in a way that seems incomprehensible and deeply frightening) come to her shores. She leaves her Little Rabbit, and retreats up north with her smaller one, who is more suited for the cooler weather. It is not long before she must leave him, as well.

Avani checks up on them sometimes, to ensure that they are all right, and is pleased, for the most part, that they are happy and at home with their new caretakers.

She is less pleased, however, with the way her people are treated by these caretakers. It _hurts_, and everything she tries to do to counter their insensitively ends with horrible losses.

She is never discovered, and instead of dying quietly, as she had hoped and feared, she merely becomes ethereal, a shadow watching over her sons.

The older one is America, who becomes a well-meaning, if boisterous young man. The younger is dubbed Canada, and while he is not nearly as eye-catching as his sibling, he is a steady worker, and conducts himself well.

It is all a mother can ask for, apart from acknowledgment.

And even though it takes nearly four centuries, she is acknowledged.

She doesn't know how they find her, but one day she turns around and they are there. Both of her boys, identical in their curiosity and uncertainty.

They come to ask apologies, for treating her people—their people—so poorly. What does she want? They ask. What can they do for her, after ignoring her for so long?

Avani is very much a spirit of nature, and the terms her sons use—compensation and retribution, among others—are meaningless.

So she tells them to do what they think is best. Then, she sits them down and tells them stories of her youth, of the land as it was. As she was.

She talks for a very long time.

They listen. They drink in everything she says and means. In some ways, they are finally absorbing _her_; finding a cohesiveness they have been trying desperately to create and endure, but had no idea how.

But they know now. When they bid her goodbye, they bow and kiss her cheeks—an odd custom, but a sweet one. They leave, aglow with knowledge they were late to learn, but would now give them what they need.

Having finally completed her duty, Avani dies quietly, and her body fades away, her soul settles in the land at long last.

* * *

So…overly pretentious? Weird? What did you think?

Reviews are always appreciated.


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